Can Such Things Be? eBook

“Nine years ago!” he shrieked, throwing
out his clenched hands—­“nine years
ago, w’en that big brute killed the woman who
loved him better than she did me!—­me who
had followed ’er from San Francisco, where ’e
won ’er at draw poker!—­me who had
watched over ’er for years w’en the scoundrel
she belonged to was ashamed to acknowledge ’er
and treat ’er white!—­me who for her
sake kept ’is cussed secret till it ate ’im
up!—­me who w’en you poisoned the beast
fulfilled ’is last request to lay ’im
alongside ’er and give ’im a stone to the
head of ’im! And I’ve never since
seen ’er grave till now, for I didn’t want
to meet ’im here.”

“Meet him? Why, Gopher, my poor fellow,
he is dead!”

“That’s why I’m afraid of ’im.”

I followed the little wretch back to his wagon and
wrung his hand at parting. It was now nightfall,
and as I stood there at the roadside in the deepening
gloom, watching the blank outlines of the receding
wagon, a sound was borne to me on the evening wind—­a
sound as of a series of vigorous thumps—­and
a voice came out of the night:

“Gee-up, there, you derned old Geranium.”

A JUG OF SIRUP

This narrative begins with the death of its hero.
Silas Deemer died on the 16th day of July, 1863,
and two days later his remains were buried.
As he had been personally known to every man, woman
and well-grown child in the village, the funeral,
as the local newspaper phrased it, “was largely
attended.” In accordance with a custom
of the time and place, the coffin was opened at the
graveside and the entire assembly of friends and neighbors
filed past, taking a last look at the face of the
dead. And then, before the eyes of all, Silas
Deemer was put into the ground. Some of the eyes
were a trifle dim, but in a general way it may be
said that at that interment there was lack of neither
observance nor observation; Silas was indubitably
dead, and none could have pointed out any ritual delinquency
that would have justified him in coming back from
the grave. Yet if human testimony is good for
anything (and certainly it once put an end to witchcraft
in and about Salem) he came back.

I forgot to state that the death and burial of Silas
Deemer occurred in the little village of Hillbrook,
where he had lived for thirty-one years. He
had been what is known in some parts of the Union (which
is admittedly a free country) as a “merchant”;
that is to say, he kept a retail shop for the sale
of such things as are commonly sold in shops of that
character. His honesty had never been questioned,
so far as is known, and he was held in high esteem
by all. The only thing that could be urged against
him by the most censorious was a too close attention
to business. It was not urged against him, though
many another, who manifested it in no greater degree,
was less leniently judged. The business to which
Silas was devoted was mostly his own—­that,
possibly, may have made a difference.